I can hear people’s thoughts to this one. What? Scars? A reason to live? Yeah. They are. I’ve scars. Because of the way I dress most of them aren’t visible. When I go to the beach there are some that I wouldn’t be covering up (well, when I go to the beach in the summer). They’re a part of me. Whether I like it or not. I can choose to give it meaning. Either positive, or negative.

I can let them define me or just be a part of my life. As is my height, hair colour, skin colour, eye colour. I went to the beach with some friends last year, I debated going into the water as it’d mean that some scars would be visible. I chose to go ahead and roll up my leggings. I made the choice then not to be ashamed of my life. Of my story. Of who I am. I went in the water. When I was debating about rolling down my leggings or keeping them up (which would dry faster) my friend told me to pull them down to avoid questions. Which besides for anything else meant that she’d recognized those scars for what they are.

I once used henya tattoo over my leg to write ‘My past does not define me’. The picture isn’t one I’d post here as it could be triggering (well, it would trigger me)

My past does not define me. I define myself. Anything that I have done I can either use or abuse.

Scars. They are a part of my life. Hopefully a part of my past. Hopefully they’ll remain a part of the story already read, and not a part of the story I’m currently writing by living my life. Scars. They tell a story. They tell my story. They tell others stories. Nothing more. Nothing less. There is a song I love by Mandisa. Scars.

When I was looking at where to place my latest tattoo one area was on my arm, which has about 7 cigarette burns from 15 years ago. I wasn’t thinking about covering them up, but when I realised it would cover them I decided I didn’t want to. I remember making many of them still, so vividly. They weren’t light burns, but really going through layers of skin, puss oozing out for weeks. All the while I kept them hidden. Even close friends now that I had at that time probably have no idea what the marks are. They don’t define me. They don’t make me. I’m not proud of them… but I don’t hate them, and they are part of me, my story. I think of that sad, sad, sad, confused, lonely teenager. And I love her, and it makes me love me a little more.